


The Drowned City

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo is troubled by dreams of Westernesse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drowned City

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Waymeet "Location" Challenge.

There are a great many books in Bilbo's library – books of poetry, books of language, books of lore, monstrous metal-strapped tomes full of deep and impenetrable histories that slide and evade Frodo's little hands as he scrabbles to hold them steady on his knee. The poetry is always a delight and a comfort, for Bilbo's voice is strong and rhythmical as he recites the words he cherishes, his tongue enfolding each small syllable and drawing the magic out with easy grace. For Bilbo is a magician; Frodo has known this for as long as he had known the touch of those long, slender hands, soft as leather and lined with such tales – some real, some invented - but ever the lines are blurred. He never makes things simple for Frodo, for he credits his charge with sharpness enough to unravel riddles. Frodo enjoys these games, and yet they bewilder him and often he hungers for simplicity. 

Happiest are the times when he can sit and dream and be carried away by the language, his mind empty to all but the rise and fall of his Uncle's voice in the warm parlour, snug against the rain that batters against the windowpanes. Between the curtains, there is a sliver of darkness, and Frodo turns his head away from it uneasily. Looking deep into the fire, he dreams of how it would feel to be standing on the outside looking in at himself, sitting here, curled up in the warm room, listening to the beautiful words that sway and rock like the spell of the sea. 

Lying in bed, the words come back to him and he recites them under his breath, as he bunches the quilt over his head, his breath hot and anxious as his mouth slips and slides over the Elvish words. Bilbo moves about the smial late in the evening, after Frodo has gone to bed, and as Frodo lies awake, his eyes blinking in the darkness, he listens to the pattering footsteps and the soft mutterings of his Uncle as he moves from room to room, searching for things he has mislaid throughout the day. Later, he can hear the kettle whistling and the clinking of pottery as Bilbo makes himself a bedtime drink and then his heart races with the knowledge that soon these sounds will cease and all shall be utterly silent. 

Never before has Frodo known such a deep, dark silence. It seems to him like the silence of the grave, for when it sinks down upon him with the soft creaking of Bilbo's bedsprings, there is no question of ever reaching the light again. 

Brandy Hall had shone like a beacon – its countless windows like the un-lidded eyes of a many-headed beast that slumbered on the hillside, glowing day and night. A fire blazed in the courtyard, and Frodo would fall asleep watching the patterns it made on his bedroom ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of laughter and conversation below. Even when he woke in the dead of night, there was always a light shining to keep out the dark and, when he listened for the soft footfalls of the help running up and down the stairs, he was re-assured and could fall back to sleep with an easy heart, happy that life still carried on around him as he slept, conforming to its conventional patterns. 

For sometimes, it seems to Frodo that dreams have the power to carry him away, and remove him from life altogether. 

Of all the books in Bilbo's library, the one that holds the greatest fascination is the great, dark book of Westernesse. It fills Frodo with trepidation and yet he finds it strangely compelling, for within its leather-bound cover are contained such wonders and such tragedies that it seems a wealth of secrets are imbedded there waiting to be invoked. The text on the page is large, spidery and black, and the illustrations, dark and detailed. It is these that he sits and scrutinises whenever he finds himself alone in the study with the freedom to explore.  
Shelved in a high place amongst the roots of the hill amongst other large books, its dark green leather binding is tethered by wide straps of metal, dulled now with age. Excited and fearful by turns, Frodo's fingers trip along the spine and itch it out, inch by inch, until it shifts into his palm and, teetering on the library ladder, he supports it carefully, his teeth gritted in concentration as he brings it slowly to the ground. 

Turning the crisp yellowed pages reverently, with wonder and dread, Frodo pours over the rich, cramped text, his fingers flying over layers and layers of time and memories. A sprawling, complex history, ages of men and elves – nearly gone beyond recall but for the pressing of ink upon page. Breathless, he finds the pictures and spreads the pages open on his knee, gaping, wide and dark. Proud men, tall and stern with bright swords and far-reaching gazes, seeking forbidden shores, their backs turned towards the beautiful, shining towers of their own blessed city. The skies brood and the sea roils, as though it senses catastrophe, beyond the sight of mortal men. Frodo hesitates before turning the final page, his eyes half-askance as he steels himself to look. 

A single dark wave, groaning and white-flecked, arches over his head as he lies with his face pressed sightlessly against cool pillows. 

Enough water was in that black wave to cover the island entirely, swallowing it whole along with all who dwelt upon it. 

_The power of the onslaught trembles against the nape of his neck, a rustling of unease on the air, carrying with it the cold kiss of moving water – little droplets and a rush of air proceeding. Darting sea birds flee and cry out in alarm, their wings carving circles in the air. Low and throbbing comes the roaring of the water as it rears up and swells, cresting until it nearly blocks out the pale light of day - the rage of Ulmo. Frodo gasps beneath its shadow, for its power is cold and deep, and makes him feel very small. He curls beneath the sheets, drawing his knees up under his chin as he awaits the impact. A hard slap and a push and he is falling, loose-limbed and motionless; his eyes are closed but through the lids he can sense a luminescence of limitless silver and green. For a while there is nothing but weightlessness and silence, and it feels as if he may be sleeping a dreamless sleep, and there is within this sea a fathomless peace._

Sometimes he will wake at this point, rising from the water, gasping, as he sits up in bed, tugging the sheets into his fists as though they would slip from his grasp. His eyes travel along the curving beams of the domed ceiling, so like an upturned ship that he wonders for a moment if he is still under the sea. On bright moonlit nights, the light would trickle across the beams and spill onto the floor, casting a ghostly silver gleam over the wardrobe and the chair, so like the moon-flecked towers that lay drowned in his mind, that for a moment he is disorientated. 

But more often than not he falls deeper and deeper, until his hands glide across glass and marble and steel. 

_Grasping with blind fingers, he finds the pinnacle of a needle-pointed tower and his body sways against the overlaid tiles that glisten like silver scales against his wildly thrashing legs._

_Gradually, his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom, and he sees that there are many more towers spreading out in all directions, spires and domes and statues of men, bright and shining as they were many ages ago, undimmed by time and the hunger of the sea. Beneath him there is still impenetrable dark, but it is eased now with the reflected light of the shining marble. Time hangs heavy in this place, and Frodo's heartbeat sounds thick and slow as, little by little, his fingers succumb to the lure of the dark and he lets go, somehow remembering that he will not drown, no matter how the water presses the breath from his body with its leaden fist._

_Frodo's feet brush cool pale stone as weightless, he walks empty streets of coral and marble, soundlessly passing vast white buildings, their arches echoing silence and tombs of fish. He is familiar now with the pattern of the streets in this palace of ghosts, ragged with bright flags of weed and anemone, for as always he follows a trail of small bubbles that race ahead of him. There is the faint sound of laughter in the air and Frodo hearkens to it – pushing against the force of the water as he strives to follow. Sometimes he seems to catch a glimpse of a skirt of fierce, deep orange, whipping and trailing around a distant pillar, but as he strides on, his skin ripped close to his bones with the strength of the water, the colour slips away with a commotion of tiny fish and the light laughter rises in a cloud of bubbles, teasing and then retreating._

_His heart lifts and rejoices as he remembers how to swim, recalling summer afternoons on the Brandywine, his mother drawing him on with her soft voice, holding out pale arms as she floated, her feet kicking the slippery green waterweeds that flourished in the deep, warm water. Her laughter and her enthusiasm were contagious and he could not deny them. Slowly slipping his body into the clutch of the river, he let himself go, sucking in breaths of air as he felt the water rising slowly to his chin, his legs wriggling and flailing, his arms reaching, pulling, reaching, until they found themselves grasped and steadied. There they embraced and she laughed into the crown of his little dark head, dewdrops running and sliding along her shoulders, her head spilling and floating like a golden net across the surface of the river, as though she was born of this element and was returning to it._  
 **Here, here, Frodo, this way…**  
He kicks his legs against cold, shining stone, his toes pushing off so hard he streams through the water, remembering how to breathe as if he has no need of air. He weaves a path through the empty halls, deserted now, their great tables still set for dinner, plates and goblets standing full of food and wine, plates of round black grapes and pitchers of dark red wine. The high-backed chairs are drawn back from the table, as if the occupants have just lately departed in haste, and one is toppled over onto its side. Up the staircases, broad and twisting, he swims until he breaks free into a vast banqueting hall. Ornate gilt arches curve high over his head, and fish swim in and out of recessed arches painted with mirrors. A huge domed roof hangs suspended over all, shattered now and gaping. It is beautiful, the bright colours flaking a little and drifting slowly down, painting the water with little flecks of red and gold. 

_Treading water, he watches as movement in a dark mirror shivers and reveals itself. She is half made of water now; her arms and legs are long and shining as if with scales, her hair has grown so long it wraps about her body like a shimmering cloak. She holds out her arms to him._  
 **Don't be afraid, Frodo…**  
And he isn't afraid any more; he is aching with love. He kicks his legs to return to her, but the harder he thrashes, the further away he seems, reflected in twenty mirrors, all puzzling him with twenty reflections of his mother, waiting to receive him. He calls out to her and she smiles benignly, shaking her head. 

_**If you struggle, you will sink…** _

_But he can't stay calm, he can't move forwards; his legs have transformed into an uncooperative tail, shining and unruly. When he tries to push forwards, the slippery fork eludes him and dashes playfully in the water, as if unconcerned of the urgency Frodo feels as his mother begins to retreat to a high dais where two heavy golden chairs stand vacant. Rising a little way in the water, her legs slender and pale, she places herself further out of reach and looks down at Frodo where he splutters and fails, unconnected to the element._

_Looking to the left, she gestures to the other chair, a tender smile playing about her lips as she watches her son as if she remembers enough about him to know that he is precious to her, but cannot quite fathom why. He wants to tell her, shout out to her –_

_**Mother! Mother! Mother!** _

_His voice is empty, his arms fail him and he wakes, sinking deeper, deeper, until she is veiled from sight and only the reflection in the watery mirrors betrays her presence._

_**Mother!** _

He breaks into life with a start and it feels as if his heart has stopped and then re-started. He is sticky with a cold sweat, and there is a great, gnawing hunger within him that is so intense it is nearly unbearable to him in this moment of waking. His lungs heave and swell with air, for it seems that he has been holding his breath all the time he dreamed. 

The latch clicks and the bedroom door creaks open. Bilbo stands in the doorway with a candle in his hand, his hair mussed and his face gaunt with startled sleep, and stares at Frodo, huddled and weeping into his sheets. Bilbo's face is so full of fear that you would not think that he had once looked a dragon squarely in the eye. 

"Frodo?"

Frodo raises his head and looks at his uncle without recognition. 

"Frodo, are you all right lad?" Bilbo pads over to the bed and sits down on the very edge, patting Frodo's hand lightly with his own, a restless inexpressible love roaming his grey eyes. "Another dream?" 

Frodo nods, wiping his wet face with the back of his hand and then looking down at the mess. 

Bilbo rises and fetches a handkerchief. "Here – here, Frodo."

Frodo takes it and rubs it over his hands and face, shuddering great, broken sighs. 

"Would you like a drink?" 

Shaking his head, Frodo wraps his thin arms around his body and draws his knees up under his damp nightshirt. 

"Some water?"

Frodo doesn’t reply, but buries his face in his knees. 

Bilbo tentatively pats the top of his cousin’s head with awkward affection. He sighs deeply. "I could stay…." 

"No," Frodo whispers. "It's all right, Uncle. Please go back to bed.”

Peering at Frodo in the gloom, Bilbo hesitates and then rises with a groan. "Goodnight then, Frodo-lad." 

Lying back on the cool pillows, Frodo closes his eyes in the semblance of peace, even though his heart is still racing and his mouth is dry and he is longing to be held and rocked like a babe. 

Bilbo stands a little longer and frowns at Frodo's pale face. "I'll leave you the light." 

When the door closes softly and Frodo is alone once more, he tries to fill his mind with gentle, happy thoughts to keep the strangeness at bay. There is one memory that will protect him, other voices that will keep him safe. 

Warm and merry, his short visits to the Gamgee smial are the closest he has come to the family he has left behind, unruly and fragmented as it was. The little smail is always warm from the cook fire that burns from dawn and is never allowed to dampen. Drying washing hangs from the roof on slatted pulleys, and the smell of the starched linen is crisp and sweet, and always there is bright conversation and a disorder tempered by the predictable rhythms of the Gaffer, whose days are ordered, rooted as they are in long service. Mari and Daisy, May and dear young Sam…

It is a comforting memory, and when he drifts back to sleep, he is calmed once more, a sense of place holding him steady. 

Safe and sound. 

_He is swimming up the stair, remembering that it is through veins of water that he has come here. Visions of the Anduin, the dark death of the marsh, the clear water of the Forbidden Pool. He remembers, and yet he forgets all as he is faced with that empty chair. He swims boldly; flexing his muscles, sensing the change, finding himself pushing further than ever before, embraced and caressed by water that parts before him, as the arms that open vacate a place. Ulmo cries. It is a roaring threat, but Frodo is oblivious to it, for he is moving like a slick little arrow through the flooded city and he is nearly home…_

Waking, blinking into the darkness, with his heart frozen and breath stalled, he looks up at the roof, holding to the memory of arching beams and dangling roots, pale and tangled over his head. But all is still high and distant, and he is suddenly paralysed with fear, for it seems that he must still be in the dream. Spreading his arms out, releasing his clutch of bedclothes, he finds that he can reach a long way, and yet still he cannot locate the edges of the bed. It is so vast, spilling out in all directions, that his feet are lost, even as he wriggles further and further down. He might well be swimming. The sheets and the pillow are so cold, so very cold, that he gasps when he falls back down upon them. 

Shivering, he clutches the embroidered cover closer. It is so heavy and tightly tucked, he feels as if it is crushing the breath from him. Moaning softly, he turns over, his eyes tracing pillars and arches, smooth, regal architecture, white stone so alike to the landscape of his dreams that he is disorientated by it and whimpers into the silence – utterly lost. Reaching out a hand, he feels for the comfort of a warm body, seeking blindly, but finds nothing except an expanse of pure white linen, undulating with small ripples where he has twisted and turned. 

He hears the sound of hurried footsteps and deep, echoing voices that speak warnings. "The Ringbearer," they murmur, considering. Frodo knows that this is what he is and shall ever be, even though he realises now that he bears nothing but a weight of dreams. There are other sounds too, a softer voice, pleading, agitated. It reminds Frodo of warm spring sunlight, and he reaches towards it in his mind like a flower seeking nourishment. He tries to sit up, but the pain in his back and shoulders is so great, he collapses back against the pillows in defeat. 

"It's all right, Mister Frodo, they've gone, they've all gone now…"

Frodo tilts his head and blinks into the gloom. "Cold…" he murmurs, shivering. 

The high mattress shifts and the covers are pulled back as a warm body slips inside and curls up beside him. Frodo can see a glimmer of reflected moonlight in the eyes that watch him keenly. He reaches out a hand and finds it clasped and rubbed by two rough, warm palms. 

"I wasn't sleeping," the voice continues. "I couldn't; not with you alone in here. They told me to let you rest, but I just couldn't, Mister Frodo. It didn't seem right, not after being with you all these months. I thought you might need me, and I couldn't bear it that I wouldn't be here if you called…. I'd rather lie at the foot of your bed and be able to see you that have that great cold room all to myself…" 

Frodo pictures warm earth under those hands, life rearing up and blossoming where they tended, and his own body rose too, the brisk contact and the warm voice stirring him into wakefulness and drawing him back to life. 

"I don't know where I am, Sam," Frodo whispers, his voice soft and broken. 

"They carried you to your bed, sir. You feel asleep at the table and Strider, he ordered the guards to take you to your room, and put you to bed. I wanted to serve you, but they didn't think it right, and they showed me to my own room instead. I didn't go to bed; it felt funny lying in these fine white sheets after all those nights spent under the stars. I sat and waited for the dawn, listening for you, in case you called. I must've dozed a while, for when I heard you cry it seemed to snap me back to life as if I'd drifted off. But I came running as fast as I could – the guards told me to go back to bed, but I said no, I begged them to let me come… " 

"Dear Sam…" Frodo sighs, stroking his fingers lightly against the palm that presses against them, a small, hot tear sliding down his cheek. "I've lost…" 

"Shhhh, sir, it's all right, I'm here now. I won't go again, not ever…" Clasping Frodo's hand more firmly, Sam presses his lips against it, his breath hitching slightly as he quiets his master. "I'm here now..." 

Frodo moves closer and their arms wind naturally around one another, hands seeking and claiming, hearts pounding close. Frodo rests his head against Sam's chest and Sam embraces him. 

"Where's Bilbo?" Frodo asks, warmth seeping back into his cold bones. 

"Bilbo's at Rivendell, with the Elves, Frodo me dear. He's waiting for you, we'll see him soon," Sam replies, pressing his face into Frodo's soft, damp curls. 

"Has he gone to bed?" 

"I'm sure he's fast off by now, dreaming of his grand adventures…" Sam continues softly, trying not to feel alarmed, rhythmically stroking Frodo's trembling hand that clutches his own so tightly. 

"The room looks different," Frodo says, abruptly. "The ceiling is so high!”

"You're at Minas Tirith, sir, you remember? It's all over now and Strider is King with his lady Arwen by his side. We're in the White City, and you’re famous now in songs." 

Frodo pauses a moment, considering. "I feel strange, Sam. It’s as though I'm dreaming and I can't wake up."

Sam shifts a little, drawing Frodo closer, wrapping his arms around him more tightly. "I reckon the sooner we get back to the Shire the better. Once you see those green hills and feel that warm sweet air on your face, you'll feel more yourself again. The roses should be flowering by now, and the cow parsley will be making the hedgerows pretty and white. They'll be a lot weeding to do in the garden, so the sooner we get back, the sooner I can start. You'll get back to your books and your study, and we'll get along right well again. I can cook for you too, if you'd like. I know I did only a little of that before, but … well, I was thinking, I could do more in the smial. I like cooking, sir, and my sisters never let me near the stove. I could do that for you, if you'd like…" 

Frodo stirs and tilts his head to look up at Sam. "Stay with me."

Sam's fingers pause their tending. "I won't leave you now," he says. 

Frodo presses his body closer, as though he would like to curl up inside Sam's skin, safe and protected. "I can still hear the water," he murmurs. 

Sam's fingers continue their stroking, a soft, unbroken rhythm that belies the trembling of his hands. "I still have that little treasure that the Lady Galadriel gave to me, do you remember, sir - the box with the dirt and the seeds in it? I had it in my pocket and never let go of it, and when we get back we can plant those seeds and have a little part of the Golden Wood with us in the Shire. It will remind us of all the beautiful things we've seen; we mustn't forget them, Mister Frodo." 

"Do you dream, Sam?" Frodo whispers. 

"Well, these past few nights as soon as we lay down in the tent I would be snoring, as you know, Mister Frodo, and when I woke up I couldn't remember anything much – just little pictures of places at the edges of my mind, or a feeling, something brushing by me like a butterfly." 

"I dream, Sam. I have this dream…"

"You don't need to tell, Sir, if you'd rather not speak of it," Sam insists, a small frown furrowing his brow. 

"It's an old dream, Sam, from long ago. I haven't dreamed it for many years, but last night it came back to me, even stronger, and I travelled deeper into it, as if I might finally come to the end of it and never need to return…" 

_He had nearly reached the chairs, his tail leaping for joy behind him, and then he had faltered and floundered, sinking to his chin. Looking up, he saw Ulmo standing beside the vacant seat, shaking his great head, huge, pearly drops of water hanging from his beard, as he watched Frodo falter and listen to a voice calling to him from another place, far away. With it came the memory of light and warmth and birdsong, and suddenly Frodo was grieved that he would never experience these things again, and his desire to wake overpowered his need to swim._

"You called me back," Frodo murmurs, grasping Sam's hand once more. "As you did in the tower, with your song." 

Sam shudders at the mention of the tower and buries his face in Frodo's hair, drawing in the sweetness that still lingers there.

"I heard you calling my name, and I came back to the surface, seeking you – wanting you back. When I woke, I turned and reached for you but you weren't there. I thought I must still be dreaming. I thought I lay in the drowned city – in a ghostly bed – never to wake, and I had thoughts of Smeagol and how he had crawled into the mountains and found that vein of water, following it to its source. After all that time in the darkness, he couldn't bear to look at the light. It's as though I'm starting to understand; it had its roots in me long ago." 

Sam continues talking softly, rhythmically, as though he hasn't heard. "The days will be growing longer, sir, and warmer, and we can sit out in the garden sometimes and read, like we used to do. You can show me some of those books from old Mister Bilbo's library, those ones you always wanted to show me but we never had time for…" his voice shatters and crumples into a sob.

Frodo turns his head and presses a soft kiss against Sam's heaving chest. "Don't cry, Sam."

"I've been a fool! After all we've been through, I couldn't stand up and tell those men what was right."

"You came when I needed you, you waited for me…" Frodo strokes Sam's wet face, brushing away the teardrops with his fingertips. 

"They said you deserved some peace, and that I was no longer just a servant but an honoured guest who needn't share his master's room nor serve him through the night. They said I had a fine room all to myself and should want for nothing." Sam draws a deep, shuddering breath. "But I did – I wanted…" 

"I know," Frodo whispers, touching Sam's soft, trembling lips with his fingers. "I know."

Sam allows himself to be silenced and lies back, shivering under Frodo's touch. "Do you want to sleep? I can watch over you," he offers quietly. 

Frodo shakes his head. "I'm afraid to, Sam." When the silence returns he can still hear the sound of the waves, pounding restlessly against the fringes of his senses. There is fear it in, but also a numbing comfort. 

"Will the dream come again?" Sam whispers, hardly daring. 

“I believe it will.”

Sam runs his hands up and down Frodo's curved back. "It's no wonder you dream of it, sir, falling in so many deep places, rivers and pools and marshes. It will fade as soon as we get home, you'll see." 

"It was as if the water was calling me, drawing me down."

"No, sir, you were burdened and you fell, that's all it was, there's naught else to fear – it's all gone now, all that you feared. There was a landslide and it all fell away and was turned to dust." 

"Retribution. Like the drowning of Westernesse," Frodo continues, burrowing against Sam's warmth. 

Sam's fingers lift and twist a long dark curl. "What makes you think of that, sir?"

"It's in my dream. A lost city, lying cold and untouched under the waves. I find my way through the empty halls until I reach a great hall and there I find her, waiting for me." 

"Who?" Sam asks, frightened of the emptiness in Frodo's small voice. 

"My mother."

Sam hadn't expected this, and the starkness of it makes his heart lurch with a fierce jolt of surprise and pain. 

"She's waiting for me to join her, but I can't swim fast enough to reach her, and then I wake. I long to join her, and yet I am afraid." 

"It was a doomed place, wasn't it, Mister Frodo?" Sam replies, rocking Frodo gently, the memory of a mother's love buried so deeply it hurt to acknowledge it. 

"The men were greedy and they broke their oath. They failed and they were punished for it." 

"That was hard," Sam replies, still rocking gently and pressing soft kisses into Frodo's hair. 

"It was their fate." Frodo voice is solemn and scared and whispers across Sam's skin under the thin white night shirt, making him shiver.

"But it ain't yours, Mister Frodo." 

Frodo stiffens in Sam's arms and Sam stills against him, dragging his face back and forth over the crown of his master's dark head, whispering ghost words. 

"I failed, Sam."

Frodo's voice is thin and grave and shakes Sam to the core. “No,” Sam murmurs, his voice trembling. “No – that ain’t the truth of it!”

"When I was there, under the water, it was as if I belonged there - there was so much beauty."

Sam sits up and pulls Frodo firmly onto his lap, hushing him tenderly as he speaks, as if to smother Frodo's chill words with his own. "You belong in the Shire, Mister Frodo. You belong in Bag End with your books and your warm fires. You belong to those little woods and copses, the quiet rivers. You belong in the garden under the rose arch, you belong to…" Sam's voice breaks and he is silent, knowing how he would finish and yet unable to voice it, his love thick and tangled in his throat. 

"I wish I knew where I belonged, Sam."

"Mister Frodo, please…" Sam’s face is streaked with tears which the moonlight turns to silver. 

Frodo sighs heavily, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. "I'm sorry to have troubled you, Sam, so sorry." 

"You ain't no trouble to me." 

Frodo reaches up and delicately strokes Sam's cheek. "Don't cry. Here, come here…" 

Tenderly, he wipes Sam's face with the fine linen of his night shirt, bunching it clumsily around his left hand. 

Sam closes his eyes, unable to look at the dear hand that he loved, quietly allowing Frodo to dry his tears, memories of his youth sparking an old fear. "When I was little, I used to have this dream, Mister Frodo. Whenever I dreamed it, I cried for Ma and I would not go to sleep again until she’d sung to me. When she’d gone, I still had that dream, but I had to sing to myself to get rid of it. She told me to tell her about it so's she could send it away. So I'd tell her, even though it feared me to do it. I’d tell her and she would send it away, putting it in the palm of her hand and blowing," Sam took Frodo's palm and blew softly across it. "Like that - as if it were thistledown." 

"Did it work?" 

"For a while, and then it came back and I had to sing to myself and remember her lips blowing it away." 

Frodo smiles softly. "Sing to me, Sam-love."

Sam swallows nervously and opens his mouth as if to speak, but Frodo silences him with a fingertip and, breathing out softly through his nose, Sam lies back against the pillows once more and brings Frodo with him, still holding him close, his master's head snug against his chest. 

Sam is almost afraid of singing in that wide, echoing room, as if he fears that his voice will shatter the very stillness of the air. So when he opens his mouth and voices the first note, it is so low and soft, that it is little more than a broken sigh. Frodo leans up and without warning, kisses him softly on the mouth, a brief caress. Drawing a shattered breath, Sam seeks and finds the words and sings them aloud with strength and clarity, each one woven with the memory of comfort and pain. 

When the song has ended and the last note dies on the air, Sam straightens the bedclothes and pulls them close, protecting Frodo with his arms and his thighs, drawing him in so that the heat of their forged bodies dispels the chill of the marble room. And as they fall into senselessness, their bodies move together as if they are dancing. 

_At first Sam thinks he must be flying through the air in the clutch of the eagles, so intense is the sensation of weightlessness - the air seeming to rush through his drifting hands. It is such a deep, dark vacancy, and yet from somewhere very deep below, comes the sound of bells ringing. After a time, his eyes grow accustomed to the dark and great wonders pass close against his face, tiny blue fish as bright as any butterfly, iridescent with their own inner light. He tries to catch them in his fist, but they evade him._

_He forgets the need to breathe._

_When the first tower emerges from the darkness, he thinks it is a great white tree, burdened with blossom, and yet when he comes closer to it, he finds that it is encrusted with anemones, beautiful as flowers. It looks like a garden has grown here, a living garden thriving amongst the dead towers. He strokes the colourful tentacles and throbbing hearts as he floats to the floor of a great palace of white marble, his hair streaming in the water like golden weed._

_As he learns to embrace the water, he finds that he can move swiftly within it. Surprised by his lithe grace, he dives playfully, chasing shoals of dancing fish, which break apart, shattering and re-forming miles ahead, at the bottom of a winding stair._

_Urged on, he follows them across the empty dining hall, stopping only to admire the great feast that still lies upon it, fresh and tempting as the day it was prepared. He feels almost like laughing, for there is such beauty in this deserted place it fills him with joy._  
A flash of scales, golden and sparkling, catches his eye.  
Knowing that he must follow it, he pushes off up the twisting stair, amazed by his skill and speed as ripples of dark water stir in his wake. Breaking out of the confines of the narrow winding space, he finds himself in a great golden room, a canopy of pale purple jellyfish, pulsing bubbles of ethereal light, drift and rise overhead like a strange and beautiful firework display. 

_Frodo is waiting in the middle of the room, his arms outstretched. Long dark curls are billowing and weaving around his neck, suspended in the moving water. When he dives, there is a flash of gold and green and palest ivory, reflected in twenty mirrors._

_Clasped about the legs, Sam falls and is dragged to the floor. As he touches the marble, he sees a picture there of elves and men, puzzled out of thousands of tiny coloured squares. Blue eyes flash and Sam reaches out and grasps a slender, wet elbow. There is a burst of high bubbling laughter and Frodo pulls away, darting through a wide arch, quicker than a fish, leaping for the sheltering shadows._

_He pursues, swimming low to the ground, so that he might surprise him from beneath. Gasping, breathless, he captures his prey, holding onto slippery skin and scales. He strokes with soundless awe, his hands slipping across silk, thinking him beautiful, captivating and yet utterly frustrating, for Sam is still mortal and there is no denying that this creature is definitely other. And yet, Frodo's lips are warm and soft and as he slips his darting tongue between them, they part on a soft cry and a clever, lustful tongue swiftly curls around his own._

_When he pulls back, he holds the beloved face between his hands and counts the years he has longed to draw such a sound from this throat – choked and joyful. His blue eyes are sparkling with secret knowledge. He looks young and utterly beautiful, his face shining with anticipation. His own body burns even in this strange element. The water does not extinguish – it boils._

_He grasps the slippery body between his outstretched thighs and the power of them presses Frodo against a gilded pillar. As he strokes the slender, shimmery skin, it transforms under his touch and all the scales fall into the water like flower petals under a breath of easterly wind._

_Undone, they smile at one another and shiver, love stroking them in gentle pulsing waves._

_Little fish tangle in their hair like jewels as they lurch together, grasping and moving, until they form a little current of their own. Heat pressed to heat, hands slipping, sliding, arching into one another, their mouths struggle to recall names they have long forgotten a use for. The orgasm is a shock of fire and as they cleave together, their tails caress and entangle, startled into an ecstasy of which they were unaware – one element melting into another. Earth into Fire – Air into Water._

Frodo awakes crying, although this time there are no tears, only sharp little blazes of pleasure making him gasp. He looks up at the curling rafters that cradle him from above and listens to the soft creaking of the floorboards and the rattle of rain upon the windowpane. He is home; Bag End enfolds him in its familiar scents and sounds.  
If he stills and concentrates, he can almost hear voices in the next bedroom. Gentle lullabies sung so as not to wake him from his sleep. Tiny cries sob fitfully and then cease as the other voices intervene, footsteps pad to and fro across the floor. He can hear Sam talking softly over Rosie's song and Frodo tries to imagine those words of comfort and can think of no luckier babe in all the Shire. 

He has given his home away, his home which had never really been a home, for he was always restless and forever wandering. It was better that Sam filled it with life and happy memories, for the smial was heavy burdened with the losses it had suffered over the years, and if this was the only way that he could voice his love, then this would have to be enough. It was the sweetest comfort to have Sam close but also the bitterest sadness at times. 

Sometimes as he slips down the passage from study to kitchen to bedroom, he feels like a phantom, a ghost of his own making, a fragment of a long dead past that had no place here any longer. Sam and Rosie are good to him and always welcome his company and yet, he feels like the shadow in the corner, something for Sam to trouble over and regret. 

Listening to the rising wind on the hilltop and the wildly rattling rain, he senses the change in the air and the very room seems to shiver with the realisation that soon this ghost will fade and pass out of all knowledge. Already the year is turning, and soon the trees will be golden instead of green, and then the time will come when the sea will claim him and carry him away. 

It will almost be a release. 

_Almost…_

~ ~ ~

Sam stands at the Grey Havens, his feet lapped by the little waves that break upon the shore. His body is sore with grief, and yet as he feels the water stirring the hair on his feet and lifting it to the surface to drift, he is reminded of Frodo's dream and how it had come to him like a gift. Many years he had lived with this treasure and never spoken of it, for he was afraid that if he should voice a word it would send the dream away, never to return. It came to him that night in Minas Tirith and it stayed with him, making him tremble in the dead of night and turn his face into his pillow so as to bury the cries that might wake his wife and sleeping child. But even though he suppresses, he never regrets.

Sometimes a shiver of remembered water would break between them and their eyes alone expressed what they had known only in dreams. The moment would pass, as easy as a summer shadow, as though it had never been, and then they would look at one another and smile as they continued their rhythms and routines, their lives encircling them with invisible walls. 

Standing at the edge of the Great Sea, Sam listens deep and hard for the sound of bells. He can almost hear them; his name tolled beneath the earth, under the water, and it speaks to him softly, urgently. 

_Don't struggle – just let go._

He remembers how to breathe.


End file.
